Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  When the mechanical gate clanked shut behind his car, all Jack heard was his blood thumping in his ears.

  Gerard’s young housekeeper answered the door. “Momenat, molim vas.” One moment please. She let Jack into the foyer and left to summon her employer.

  Gerard sprang down the stairs in a smoking jacket with a scarf around his neck. “Jack. Whatever happened? What are you doing here?”

  Jack extended his hand. Was it trembling because of the drive or the news he was about to divulge? “Can we sit down?”

  “Come into my salon.”

  “I could use a drink as well.”

  “Certainly. What is this all about?”

  Jack fell into the first couch he saw. “Who do you know about the War Crimes Tribunal?”

  Foster Young’s apartment was on the tenth floor of a concrete building that overlooked the twinkling skyline of Sofia.

  Mick noticed how room rambled onto room. Dust collected on the modern furniture. And the track lighting was muted because several bulbs were missing. As Mick’s counterpart, Foster was a hardworking station chief with little time for housekeeping.

  Coleen raised a flute glass of imported champagne and offered a toast to Sofia. City lights reflected off of the washing machine on Foster’s balcony, lending a cold splash of reality to the otherwise intoxicating night.

  Natalie lifted a glass of the sparkling champagne and offered another toast. “Here’s to progress in our relations.”

  “Here’s to putting our differences to bed,” Foster said.

  The drink tingled as it went down Mick’s throat.

  Foster seemed to own the city that evening, even the country. Mick asked him about Bulgaria’s move toward capitalism.

  “Well,” he replied with a supercilious smile, “at least we haven’t destroyed and buried ourselves like some countries. I’d say there’s a glimmer of hope for Bulgaria.”

  Mick ignored the dig at Yugoslavia. “In the next five years, will high-rise buildings fill the horizon?”

  “Don’t count on it,” Foster admitted. “Maybe some new hotels. The Soviets would sell their huge embassy to Hilton, if they wanted it.”

  He went on to describe the long trek toward capitalism on which the country was embarking. The government in Sofia had begun to face up to its problems. An agricultural society presented fewer obstacles to de-socializing than an industrial state, and the private economy was already taking off.

  “And how about political freedom?” Natalie asked.

  Foster poured some more drinks. The big question still lay in the rights of ethnic Turks and Macedonians. Both minorities demanded recognition and group protection. Some minority extremists even longed for independence. Still, the average elected delegate was a Bulgar with no interest in serving the needs of the few.

  He seemed eager to change subjects.

  “The gas tank is topped off. Tomorrow, I’ll treat you to the sights of wonderful downtown Blagoevgrad and all points south.”

  “Where will we stay tomorrow?” Coleen asked.

  “My guess is we’ll be relaxing on the beaches of Halkidiki.”

  “It sounds lovely,” she said, and sidled up to him at the wet bar. “I’ve never been there before.”

  Natalie looked imploringly at Mick. “We could all use some R&R.”

  Mick stood up. He hadn’t decided where they should go next. He just wanted Jack to call from Belgrade.

  Natalie pressed up against him and cuddled in his arms.

  At last he relented. “If Foster doesn’t mind our company.”

  Her pale blue eyes looked up to thank him. She seemed to melt into his arms, her thin blouse dissolving under his touch.

  Coleen leaned into Foster, who bent down to meet her lips.

  Natalie dropped her lower lip in a half smile. She grabbed the loose end of Mick’s belt and slowly unbuckled it. He fingered the pearl buttons of her blouse. She closed her eyes as cool air circulated in the opening.

  He slid his large hands under her breasts. They were still young and supple, like two friends from his past. A distant memory stirred in him. She had once been an irresistible magnet, and, touching her, he began to feel the intense pull.

  “This way, boy.” She tugged him by his belt.

  He followed her while images of her naked body danced in his imagination. They passed the limp form of Coleen in the shadowy cradle of Foster’s arms.

  Then, Mick spotted an orange glow flickering on the horizon. “What’s that?”

  “Damn.” Natalie jerked his belt toward her.

  He spun away to the picture window. He couldn’t believe it. Flames licked out of windows in the center of town.

  “Foster, is this normal?”

  Natalie heaved a sigh and dropped the end of his belt.

  Foster pried himself from Coleen’s arms.

  Even from that distance, Mick could hear a deep male chorus. It was a protest chant rising and falling in contra-tempo to the wail of sirens.

  An evening breeze wafted off Kavalla Bay and ruffled Alec and Terry’s tablecloth. A grilled swordfish lay bathed in garlic, redolent but untouched between them.

  He gazed into Terry’s deep blue eyes. She absorbed every move he made like a tantalized audience.

  “You try it first,” he offered.

  She seemed unwilling to speak.

  “Okay, then I’ll help you,” he said, smiling to himself.

  He placed several boiled potatoes on her plate, along with string beans, stewed tomatoes and slices of the tender white fish. He served himself a good portion of food and refreshed their glasses from a carafe of retcine wine.

  She cocked her head to listen to the voices and music around them. Alec caught snatches of a conversation between a German couple at the next table over. Elsewhere, a Greek man admonished his children in a sonorous voice.

  After the long drive to the port city, Alec felt reinvigorated by the soulful duo of accordion and guitar.

  Fishing trawlers had completed work for the day. Rising and falling on gentle waves, they creaked against a nearby wharf. Snow-white seagulls perched on pilings. Red sparkles of a setting sun glinted off yachts that rocked in the bay.

  “Do you get down here often?” Alec asked.

  “To Kavalla? Only once, so far. Normally I stay in Thessaloniki and shop my brains out for consumables.” She smiled. “It’s my first time in Greece with a man.”

  “Good. I like first times.”

  She blushed and leaned back. The breeze caught her hair and revealed more of her tanned face and neck. Her white watchband contrasted nicely with her tan.

  “Could you please explain what this is all about?” she finally said. “Why are you here? What in the world were you and your brother talking about?”

  “We’re here because of you,” he said. “We can push Serbian troops back over the border. We can keep the Greeks from claiming Macedonia.”

  “And how will you accomplish that?”

  “I’m hoping that we can undermine their key players. It appears that Greeks are in on the plot with the Serbs. The two heads of state will meet Saturday on Mt. Athos.”

  “Great.” She looked far off and folded her arms across her chest. “There goes Macedonia.”

  “What do you know about Mt. Athos?” he said. “All I know is that it’s rugged and filled with Orthodox monasteries.”

  “What do you plan to do? Attack Mt. Athos?”

  “No, infiltrate it. I want to find out what the presidents are up to.”

  “Well, let me fill you in on a few details. Mt. Athos is an independently governed state within Greece. It’s more than one mountain. It consists of several steep mountains on the tip of the third Halkidiki Peninsula. And access is limited to only a handful of pilgrims each day.”

  “Can we go as pilgrims?”

  “Us? First of all, they allow only men. They’re so strict on that rule, that they don’t even allow she-goats. Then you need permission to enter. From wha
t I understand, some monasteries are so secretive that the public has never seen them at all. Some are built into inaccessible crags. And in some, the monks haven’t been allowed to speak for centuries. Needless to say, you’ll find getting in there difficult.”

  “I wonder how the heads of state will approach the peninsula.”

  “There’s only one way,” she said. “By boat.”

  “Have you ever been to Mt. Athos?”

  “I’ve only done what most tourists do. I took a cruise around the peninsulas. I can vouch for how isolated the mountains are. There’s little vegetation, mostly exposed rock and cliffs with tiny buildings perched here and there. And, I imagine with the heads of state visiting, all visitors will be turned away.”

  “Now I can see why the prime minister chose the place.”

  “For its security?”

  “No, for its secrecy.”

  Terry set her wineglass aside, leaned forward and rested on her elbows. “How much of this should I know?”

  Alec was swallowed up by her large, attentive eyes. “I’m afraid if I tell you too much, you’ll become an accomplice. And I don’t think you’d want that.”

  “Who, if anybody, is aware of what the Serbs and Greeks are up to? I haven’t seen a single cable on this.”

  “Nobody knows about it except you, me and Mick.”

  “And these people sitting around us,” she said with a wink.

  “Okay. Dock me for a security violation.”

  The guitarist was circulating among the tables.

  “I think we could open up more in a quieter place,” she said suggestively.

  “Do you think we need a little more privacy?”

  “Not privacy. Intimacy, perhaps.”

  Alec stood and took her by the hand. She followed his lead, her knee-length skirt sweeping around their table. On the granite quay, they swayed to the folk tune. Moonlight battled the waning sunlight for mastery of the sky.

  He felt her laughing. “What is it?”

  “I work for the U.S. Government.”

  “And?”

  “And we want to kill you.”

  “So?”

  She shook her head, not believing it herself. “So why am I dancing with you?”

  “Let’s keep this on a personal level,” he said. “Now that we’re in Greece, let the gods do the dirty work.”

  She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “And let the mortals play.”

  Chapter 32

  That morning, Foster Young and his houseguests were awoken by a telephone call from the embassy.

  He slammed down the phone and announced, “Macedonians set fire to the Bulgarian Art Gallery.”

  “Macedonians? Are they still demonstrating?” Mick asked.

  “The Marines warn us not to drive downtown. Police have blocked off the town center starting at Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.”

  “Maybe we should get a handle on what the Macedonians are up to here in Bulgaria,” Mick suggested. “Let’s go around to the back of the cathedral.”

  Later that hour, they were walking through a forested park, named “Park na Svobodata” or “Freedom Park” in honor of the Soviets. On the rich summer morning, Mick could hardly tell that there was a disturbance nearby. The grounds reverberated with the squeals of children.

  At a playground, infants slid down the trunk of an elephant-shaped slide. Toddlers pedaled on plastic tricycles around flowerbeds, statues and splashing fountains. Older kids stood side by side beating tennis balls against a wall. The only sign of trouble was in the nervous eyes of the adults.

  The four reached the square dominated by the golden-domed Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Yellow cobblestone streets were devoid of cars, trams and people. Concrete planters blocked access in several directions.

  “I’ll go first,” Foster volunteered, and proceeded into the open space. Mick and the women let him cross the street and then followed. In that way, they ventured several blocks downtown, toward the sound of a blaring loudspeaker.

  When they turned a corner, they came upon a forested mall surrounded by government buildings. Foster stopped, lifted a finger and sniffed the air. Mick smelled a trace of pepper in the air. He felt a slight burning sensation on his skin and his eyes began to well up.

  He blinked several times. The devastation was widespread.

  Every window that faced the mall was smashed. Glass lay in shards on every inch of sidewalk. A kiosk had been toppled over. Someone had sprayed a red “M” on the façade of each building.

  At one end of the verdant mall, leaders of the riot were shouting, “Nezavisimost za Makedontcite.”

  “Translate, please,” Mick asked Foster.

  “They’re calling for independence for Macedonians.”

  “Does that mean against the Serbs?”

  “No. Most likely they’re calling for an autonomous region within Bulgaria. But who knows?”

  The leaders were speaking to a crowd of youths in black leather jackets. They carried chipped pieces of cobblestone, lead pipes and wooden truncheons. In short, it was a group of thugs, rather than a general uprising.

  Wiping his eyes, Foster led the crew forward for a better view. They had to pass through a line of police in gas masks and riot gear. Each policeman carried his own truncheon, along with a scuffed plastic shield. Beside them, a blue snowplow with a wire mesh attachment sat ready to shove people aside.

  Foster pointed across the mall. “There’s the embassy. Second building off the park.”

  Mick barely recognized it from the day before. “Looks like the windows got smashed.”

  Coleen wrinkled her nose. “Something’s still burning.”

  Several plumes of smoke rose ominously from nearby buildings.

  “That’s the Russian Orthodox Church,” Foster said. “The National Library. The Art Gallery.”

  Mick was interested in the noisy, but small group of protesters. “It’s not a large mob. I’m amazed by the amount of destruction.”

  “There may have been others,” Foster said. “My guess is they’re waving a Macedonian flag from the Parliament Building right now.”

  A car engine roared above the chanting. Without warning, a black Zhiguli spun onto the grass between trees and bounced over concrete walkways. From an open window, an assault rifle sprayed bullets into the upper windows of buildings.

  Mick reached out for Natalie, but was caught up in a tidal wave of police, who charged up behind them. There was no place to run, and the four of them were literally lifted onto the mall in front of police shields.

  Police gunshots whizzed past them and over the heads of the protesters. An assault rifle sputtered from the crowd. Several policemen staggered backward and landed on their backs.

  Mick pulled Natalie under a tree. Foster crawled toward them. Coleen had been pushed farthest away and lay immobile atop a bush.

  Police fell to one knee in the grass. Just behind them, a tube launched a canister into the air.

  It landed with a fiery, thudding concussion. “That’s no pepper spray,” Mick said. “That’s tear gas.”

  “Coleen,” Natalie yelled above the crack of rifles.

  She didn’t move.

  Some protesters fell wounded under the barrage of bullets. Others picked up the injured and looked around uncertainly. Mick sensed that they were expecting someone to come to their defense.

  “Good God,” Foster said. “Look.”

  Two massive garbage trucks and a truck carrying a water tank sped from behind the ranks of the protesters, who cheered them on. The trucks seemed to lock in on targets. They barreled straight at the troops who stood in the open.

  “Let’s make for the embassy,” Foster said.

  “Why?” Mick asked.

  The embassy building stood opposite the mall. Coleen lay prone in the other direction.

  “It’s the only building that’s safe,” Foster said.

  The trio eased behind a slender tree that served as their only protection fro
m a garbage truck that was speeding their way. When the truck rocketed past, they saw gunmen standing in the back of the truck spraying bullets in all directions.

  They circled the tree in self-defense.

  “Okay, then the other way,” Foster shouted.

  “Wait,” Natalie cried.

  The police’s converted blue snowplow now bounced across the street toward them. At first it headed for the protesters, then, inexplicably, it gunned past the bush where Coleen lay and began pursuing the garbage truck.

  Natalie crouched low and launched into the snowplow’s wake.

  Meanwhile, Coleen had rolled off the top of the bush.

  Foster and Mick scrambled across the grass after Natalie. They found her kneeling over Coleen, who was alive, but murmuring incoherently.

  One side of her forehead bled profusely. Natalie pulled tissues from her pocket and began to staunch the flow of blood.

  They were out in the open and exposed to gunfire. Mick and Foster lifted Coleen by the arms and legs and Natalie supported her head. They hurried her past clusters of riot police, who huddled behind statues, fountains and trees.

  The water truck that was controlled by the protestors separated from the garbage trucks and drove around the mall, spraying in all directions. Then, unexpectedly, it swung toward Mick’s group.

  Just as he began to wonder why it was spraying water, he got drenched. It wasn’t water. It was gasoline.

  “Quick, off the grass,” he yelled.

  Protesters had lit fires at one end of the mall. Flames traveled in jagged lines up trees, across shrubs and through the grass.

  “Don’t let the flames get us,” he shouted.

  He hefted Coleen onto his back and directed the others toward a sidewalk. The gasoline volatized quickly and became airborne. The heat was brief and intense as flames arched overhead into tree branches.

  Natalie ran past Mick and disappeared into a cloud of black smoke.

  “Natalie!”

  He followed the sound of her footsteps in and out of smoke as she stitched a border along the edge of the park.